


Missed Mistakes

by Carmenlire



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Canon Compliant, Domestic, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Alec, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Supportive Magnus Bane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:43:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmenlire/pseuds/Carmenlire
Summary: He’s better. He knows he is. He swore after that last time, after Magnus gently prodded at him, that he’d never do it again. And he hasn’t.But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t miss it sometimes.Sometimes-- when the Institute is too much, when everything is pulling him in a thousand different directions and it’s all justtoo much-- he sits and he imagines it. It’s a shameful secret, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one but it brings him down. It helps.Or, Alec has a rough day.





	Missed Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Everyone! I just wanted to let you know that there's talk of canon-compliant self-harm in this fic. Nothing more than the show portrays, but I just wanted to give a warning. Happy Reading :)

He misses it sometimes.

It’s been months, _years_ , since he last let a wound fester, since the last time he let someone land a _lucky_ punch, since he drove his body into the ground trying to feel something, anything besides the gnawing pain that swelled in his chest every minute of every goddamn day.

It’s been so long but he can still imagine the bite of pain, the sting of his bow string slicing his hand. He can imagine the dull ache, the burn of it all that washed everything else away, at least for a few minutes.

He’s better. He knows he is. He swore after that last time, after Magnus gently prodded at him, that he’d never do it again. And he hasn’t.

But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t miss it sometimes.

Sometimes-- when the Institute is too much, when everything is pulling him in a thousand different directions and it’s all just _too much_ \-- he sits and he imagines it. It’s a shameful secret, a guilty pleasure if ever there was one but it brings him down. It helps.

And then there are times when nothing is wrong, when there isn’t anything that’s triggered this fucking feeling in his heart that nothing’s okay and that he’s sliding back down. When that happens he buries himself in work, tries his best to ignore the way his chest becomes a gaping chasm where his worst fears and all of his insecurities lay.

Unfortunately, it’s his day off and in preparation for it, he’d finished all of his work. Even if he wanted to go in, there wouldn’t be anything to do except twiddle his fucking thumbs in agitation.

Magnus is away for most of the day and he has the loft to himself. Alec lingers in bed far longer than he should, in that uneasy space between sleeping and awake.

When he finally climbs out of bed, he makes his way out of their bedroom, into the living room. It’s a sunny day, which seems the worst sort of irony, and he winces at the harsh light of the sun streaming through the windows.

The sharp pain in his eyes makes him feel something-- something in the dull bleariness the day is shaping up to be.

He pads over to the French doors and stares unseeing outside, watching birds play in the sky and hearing the faint hum of cars so many stories below.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, still. He feels like a statue, wishes distantly that he could be one if even for an hour-- he needs an escape. He needs to not exist for just a little while.

This feeling that he’s squashed so long ago is rising up and it’s choking him. He knows what he wants-- rationally, he knows that it isn’t what he needs but that doesn’t stop the guttural emotion from claiming him. It does nothing to mute the yearning that courses through him.

He imagines it. He thinks about going into the Institute and heading straight for the training room and target practicing for hours until he’s drained and bleeding but satisfied.

God, he wants it. He wants it so much. He feels the phantom sensation of fingers on a bow string, of a rivulet of blood trickling down his wrist.

It’s like his mind is wrapped in cotton. There are a million thoughts just out of reach and the only one he can touch, the only one out of the bunch that’s tangible, is this one.

He knows it’s fucked up. He knows that he’s passed this, that he’s supposed to be better than this.

In this moment, though, he just doesn’t have the strength or desire to care.

It’s been a long time since he was that lost boy and bitter man who carried the fear that he was doomed, that his future was an icy landscape he’d traverse alone and lonely. He has Magnus, knows now that he’s always had his family.

It’s like his flight or fight response has morphed, though, transforming until his gut instinct is always self-flagellation. He’d never tell anyone but sometimes he craves that feeling even when something good happens.

It’s much more prevalent when something bad is going on-- but most of all, when he’s pervaded by the sense that he’s empty and used and faded. That’s when it’s the worst.

He knows that he has Magnus. Hell, he has a whole support system now. He’s an adult, though, and he can handle a few negative emotions without going over the deep end.

As he stares outside, numb, he can’t help but think that it’s all conjecture. He _hopes_ that he never falls again. Hopes to hell that he never goes back to being that angry, empty shell of a man.

It’s a while later when he finally takes a deep breath, feels his lungs expand almost painfully. He turns away and shuffles over to the couch. He sits down and thinks-- about nothing in particular. He’s bored but he’s also keyed up and it’s a terrible, horrible feeling.

He recognizes it. It’s scary just how familiar he is with this feeling even after so long.

He spends the day by turns wanting to pull his hair out and wanting to sleep. He takes a nap that leaves him feeling even worse, making it feel like dull nails are scraping up his spine, begging him to _do something_.

Shadows lengthen across the hardwood floors and Alec barely realizes that hours have passed since he first woke up. He hasn’t done anything today. He thinks it’s a shame. He could've gotten so much done, had planned to do so much.

On the other hand, things could have gone much worse, so he supposes he’ll take what he can get.

When a portal appears in the middle of the living room, he has a moment to wish that he’d at least taken a shower. He probably looks fucking awful, washed out and showing every numbing moment he's suffered through today.

Magnus steps into the room looking cool in his neatly pressed clothes that still look like haute couture several hours later.

His eyes scan the room, over Alec before snapping back. It’s silent and the silence has always grated on Alec’s nerves the worst when he’s like this.

“Good afternoon, my darling,” Magnus says softly.

“Hey.” Alec’s voice cracks and like a goddamn idiot, he feels tears pool. It doesn’t make sense, but he is so fucking tired, Jesus Christ.

Magnus smiles, just a quirk of his lips as his eyes trail over Alec. He can’t explain it, but Alec feels infinitely better just having his boyfriend here, in the same room. While he’d been embarrassed at first, he can’t ignore the way everything in him just _wants_ Magnus. He wants Magnus close, so close that he can snuff out whatever ugly feeling has been building in his chest all day.

“What do you need?”

Alec inhales sharply. “You,” he says, devastatingly simple.

Without waiting another second, Magnus steps forward arms outstretched. Alec tumbles back onto the couch and Magnus doesn’t hesitate before he’s on top of him, pressing him into the cushions.

 _Yes_. This is what he’d needed. He’d needed someone to make him feel like a person again. Magnus’s weight on top of him is a welcome sensation. It makes him _feel_ something. He feels warmth seeping into his icy bones and shudders, exhales on a shaky breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

He makes more room for Magnus to settle even more firmly against him. Magnus doesn’t say anything, just tightens his arms, his steady breath against Alec’s neck helping, too.

They stay like that for ages and Alec doesn’t magically feel better, complete again. He knows that he probably just needs a shower and a hot meal and a good night’s sleep but he is immeasurably better.

They stay like that until the shadows grow long and the room plunges into twilight gloom.

Alec knows that every day is a potential struggle and that he’ll carry scars-- physical and intangible-- for the rest of his life. He knows he can be strong and that _that_ part of his life is behind him.

Sometimes he needs the reminder, though.

Yeah, Alec misses it sometimes. Sometimes, it’s so overwhelming that he just wants to fall, craves the feelings he’s worked so hard to bury.

He’s better than that, though.

Magnus helps. Magnus helps so much and he doesn’t even know.

“I love you,” Alec whispers into the quiet, voice croaking.

Magnus’s breath is hot on his neck as he kisses his pulse. “I love you too, Alexander. Always.”

Yeah, Alec will be okay. Always.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr @carmenlire :)


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